


Small, Gray World

by imitationicarus



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: ALMOST Character Death, Angst, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Fushimi stuck in his own head, Hurt/Comfort, Rewrite, some language, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitationicarus/pseuds/imitationicarus
Summary: A rewrite of Misaki x3. Alternate Return of Kings. Fushimi and Yata meet at the school, but a choice encounter with Sukuna goes wrong, and the vanguard is left in critical condition with a chance he will not recover. Fushimi is trapped in his own thoughts. Can he ever see the color of the world again without Yata?
Kudos: 5





	Small, Gray World

A voice filtered in through the darkness of Fushimi Saruhiko’s heart.

A small, pathetic voice.

“I still haven’t thanked you yet, did I?” Uncomfortable silence. “I’m talking about the time when the Green Clan kidnapped Anna before she could awaken as King. If you hadn’t tipped us off, I wouldn’t have rescued her, let alone found her.”

The world came into focus, a gradient of grays and blacks, except for the short, red flame before him. Yata Misaki, apologizing to _him_? That was… laughable. Was laughter even appropriate?

Who was he kidding? It always was.

However, Fushimi made the mistake of glancing at Yata’s face. Honesty painted the red’s expression—it was the only crutch to his stupid rashness. Fushimi could deal with rashness, with anger. But the truth swallowed the bitter laughter inside of him.

“And?” Fushimi responded with a scowl.

“Huh?” Yata said, like he expected a different reaction. “Listen, I don’t like you.”

As if Fushimi didn’t already know that.

But Yata’s guard laid at Fushimi’s feet. The blue refused to admit so was his own.

“It’s not like I’ve forgiven you but…” The vanguard lowered his gaze. “But I’m grateful for that one time.”

This was what years of friendship resulted in—raw, bare feelings strewn on the sidewalk of a school where they lost fractions of themselves.

_How pathetic._

Fushimi tilted his head away. The two of them were dancing, but it was one Fushimi didn’t know. They were constantly stepping over each other. This _attempt_ at civility wasn’t real. All of it was fake.

Yata shifted from one foot to the other in the uncomfortable silence.

And Fushimi barely noticed the streak of green in his small, gray world, but the environment erupted into colors again

_“I still haven’t thanked you yet, have I?”_

The lips that spoke the words seared into Fushimi’s brain twitched then turned red—an awful, ugly red—that contrasted against the frothing green scythe halfway embedded in the vanguard’s throat.

None of this was real. All of this was fake.

Misaki stared back at him, his big eyes only bigger.

How did Fushimi not see the attacker? _How did he not see him?_

This school had already taken so much.

“Oops,” a high-pitch voice sung behind Yata. “Didn’t think my sneak attack would be super effective.”

A knife was in Fushimi’s hand, his brain spinning like a wash cycle, preventing any thought from settling except for _Misaki, Misaki, Misaki._

The perpetrator waltzed into the blue’s view like he was appearing for a show. The green blade on the scythe dispersed, and the child raised the pipe to rest on his shoulder.

He was just a kid. A twelve-year-old at best. After long shifts at Scepter 4, he knew he was a member of JUNGLE. Gojo Sukuna. _How did Fushimi not sense him?_

The vanguard made no sound when he hit the concrete.

_Don’t look._ But Fushimi’s eyes betrayed him. Yata’s crumpled body was like a wad of paper dipped in acrylic paint. He was either dead, or dying, and the blue had to _react._

And it spurred the fire Fushimi had always tried to deny. His knife was the conduit for his flames.

And the child was the thing that would _burn._

Fushimi threw his knife at the green’s throat, but Sukuna popped his staff off his shoulder and swiped the weapon away. Fushimi tched and pressed his glasses _hard_ into the bridge of his nose.

The cycle of his mind came to a stop, and he could finally think.

“Huh, that’s an interesting trick.” Sukuna grinned. “But don’t think you can beat the final boss with it.”

Misaki liked video games. Misaki, Misaki, Misaki.

The vanguard was not dead. Of course, he wasn’t _. But he’s going to be dead if you let him bleed out._

The familiar words burned Fushimi’s throat, his eyes, his head. _“I still haven’t thanked you yet, did I?”_

The blue pulled two more knives and threw them in quick succession. With Sukuna focused on picking them off, Fushimi ducked and scooped Yata into his arms.

“Hey!” Sukuna shouted. “You can’t cheat!”

The kid charged, and Fushimi narrowly rolled out of his path and jammed his fingers into Yata’s bleeding artery. He exhaled hard and jerked the red onto his shoulder.

And he ran.

Fushimi couldn’t say he had ever run from a fight before, but now he was. With two fingers in the bloody neck of his ex-best friend, he ran from the Green Clan’s toddler. He burned through his adrenaline just to keep pace, to keep the vanguard from falling off his shoulder.

Misaki, Misaki, Misaki.

_How did he miss Sukuna?_

Fushimi knew there was a hospital nearby. But he miscalculated the distance to it by a block. _A whole block._

_“_ Out of my way _,”_ he seethed, and a cluster of people gasped and parted for him.

The hospital had been just _feet_ in the other direction, and Fushimi cursed every meter he had to make up.

The sensors on the entrance didn’t detect him quickly enough. Fushimi slammed his shoulder into the glass and released a noise his pride would never admit as pain before the sensor triggered and allowed him inside.

Simple words.

“I need a doctor,” Fushimi said.

But they weren’t always so simple.

The triage nurse at the front desk dropped her files and called for help, and the vanguard was removed from his arms and wheeled away somewhere the blue didn’t follow.

Fushimi wordlessly filled out a sheet of Misaki’s information—name, date of birth, and medical history he still remembered. He signed Kusanagi’s phone number on the contact information and left the paper at the desk.

And he was gone, lost somewhere in his little, gray world.

_How did he miss this?_

* * *

_Emergency surgery._

Fushimi read the bright document on the LED screen more than once. The light swelled in the dark room, and he adjusted his shirt as it irritated his bruised shoulder.

But that wasn’t the only thing that was bruised.

Fushimi frowned.

_Why do I always hack something for Misaki?_ Even if it was conditional, like finding Totsuka’s murderer or locating Anna, he always helped the vanguard. And that burned him to the core.

_“I still haven’t thanked you yet, did I?”_

Fushimi opened a second tab and logged into JUNGLE. He was nowhere near breaking the gap between E and L, let alone making the jump to J rank and Sukuna Gojo. Fushimi didn’t know the skill set of a twelve-year-old child, but he assumed it was at least at a level playing field as Misaki—but Sukuna had caught them _both_ off-guard.

He rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb and checked his phone. Still no messages from Munakata. What was he up to?

A blue flash on the screen drew his attention again. The tab of Misaki’s medical records throbbed a dark hue.

Fushimi’s program to inform him of page updates.

_How ironic._

Was laughter appropriate now?

He opened the tab and scrolled to the bottom, past the pre-op and attempt at a history, to the tiny little paragraph listed as an operative report.

_“Surgical complications, code blue.”_

Fushimi slammed the laptop shut, and his world was consumed in darkness. It was the first time he never wanted to read the color he betrayed Misaki for, in that way, in that context.

Misaki was dying.

The cycle of his mind started again, but before the wash of emotions could drown him, his phone rang.

He didn’t want to answer it, but he jabbed the answer button and flung all his malice into one word. “What?”

A chuckle. Fushimi’s eye twitched. Scratch that. Laughter now _wasn’t_ appropriate

“I have a proposition, Fushimi,” the Blue King said. “About how to deal with the emergence of the Green Clan.”

He stopped there, baiting him, and it pissed Fushimi off to no end.

“What is it?” Fushimi snapped and yanked his laptop open to switch to the JUNGLE tab quickly.

The screen hovered on the logo for a moment, before returning to the log in screen. Green. Green was now a color he hated more than red.

He knew at that moment what Munakata wanted him to do.

And it _burned._

* * *

Fushimi was in a bitter mood. He woke up from his meager two-hour sleep only to find the cupboards devoid of any coffee products. He cursed and slammed the door shut, trudging back to his room to retrieve his laptop. He was in the middle of ordering more when his phone rang again.

His usual greeting. “What.”

His unusual reply. “Hello, Fushimi.”

His posture straightened instantly. This couldn’t be good.

“Never thought I’d have a red call me other than Misaki, let alone their babysitter.” Fushimi paced across the kitchen tile, his curser still on the _Add to Cart_ button.

How pathetic. He was _pacing_ now, like a worried mother waiting for news on her child.

“You know I’d always keep you up-to-date with anything important.” Kusanagi paused. _Why did he pause?_ “So… how have you been?”

“Fine.”

He forced himself to stop pacing, and he leaned against the doorway to his living room instead—but of course, his eyes settled on the unused console controller perched on his coffee table.

Everything made him think about that stupid vanguard. It was like his very presence was weaved into the fabric of Fushimi’s existence.

Kusanagi chuckled. “Seri’s not giving you trouble, I hope.”

The blue turned his back to the living room. “And _I_ hope you didn’t call to make small talk because I’m not in the mood.”

“Sorry. I didn’t. I just wanted to let you know how Yata was doing.”

“Let me guess,” Fushimi said. “Our Misaki went and died on us, didn’t he?”

Even against all rational thoughts, his heart thudded in his ears, moments passing in seconds. Video game nights, failed study sessions, arcades and sodas and laughter and Misaki, Misaki, Misaki. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand, but it wouldn’t end.

_How did he miss it?_

“No.” Kusanagi shattered the pane of memories, and Fushimi left the broken shards around his feet. “He pulled through, so he’s going to be okay. They were able to repair most of the damage. Should be home soon.”

The blue digested the words, probed each one until he picked the rotten one from the healthy bunch: most. Not all. Just most. Why most?

The cycle of thoughts again.

He hung up on Kusanagi suddenly and marched back to his laptop. Within a few keystrokes, he hacked into the vanguard’s medical record. A video waited for him at the end of the post-op section.

He frowned and opened it.

It was Misaki.

The red looked like a child, small and frail and consumed by everything bigger than him, the bed, the gown, the IV line. His throat from chin to collarbone was wrapped in thick, coarse bandages, and his wild hair clung to it. Fushimi was hyperaware of everything, the way the red cringed when he swallowed or how his left hand kept fiddling with the IV line.

_Leave it alone Misaki, or you’ll pull it out and give yourself a heart attack when you see the blood._

“This is Yata Misaki,” someone spoke. “And this is documentation of his progress post-op. Please restate your name.”

Misaki wrapped the IV line partially around his index finger and fixated his earnest eyes on the camera.

_You’re going to cut off the supply of medicine, Misaki._ But Fushimi saw the truth buried in his gaze.

Something was wrong.

The vanguard opened his mouth and closed it for a moment. Fushimi’s phone slipped from his grasp. It thudded just as hard as his heart.

“My name… is Yatagarasu…”

Yata was only whispering, and he couldn’t speak louder than it. He was trying, the strain was evident, but each word that escaped was soft and barely detectable to the audio.

Fushimi walked away from the computer, away from the vanguard’s face, away from the whispers that would haunt him like screams.

_How did he miss this?_

* * *

The next two weeks slid by in chunks. Homra, Scepter 4, and whatever the Silver King decided to call his gang of only three people were now in full cooperation. Fushimi spent long hours at Scepter 4 with his king, plotting their next act to deal with the Green Clan once and for all.

Fushimi was a great magician during this time. Anywhere the vanguard turned up, the blue always “mysteriously” vanished, either leaving just as Yata entered or assigning himself a duty somewhere else entirely.

But even the brief interactions were enough to leave Fushimi _burning._

Fushimi knew from the medical reports that there was no hope for a surgeon to fix the vanguard’s voice. Any conversation with Yata only provoked pain, not pleasure from watching him squirm. Fushimi hadn’t even considered laughing, even mockingly, once during those two weeks.

_How did I miss this?_

Unfortunately, after one meeting, Fushimi miscalculated—why is he so prone to errors now?—and Misaki cut him off at the door before the blue could make his great escape. Fushimi tried to fade backward, but Seri chatted with Homra’s bartender and blocked his escape route.

Even if he wanted to, this time Fushimi couldn’t run.

“Saru,” Yata spoke.

He gained some volume in his voice but not much. It was only slightly louder than the hospital video, but it made Fushimi grind his teeth all the same. Yata’s neck was still wrapped in bandages, and he held his skateboard loosely at his side.

Everything seemed real, except for the little blemishes that made it feel so _fake._

Fushimi didn’t speak, afraid that hewould start talking in whispers, too. There was a thickness in the air, but it wasn’t tension. Fushimi realized with a frown what it really was—pity.

He _pitied_ the vanguard.

The blue pushed his glasses up. “You should run home to your mother, Misaki. Before they leave without you.”

But it sounded just as weak as Fushimi felt in his heart.

“Really, Saru?” Fushimi winced. _Misaki shouldn’t be speaking like that._ “Because I think your daddy’s calling for you right now.”

As a sign of grace—or pitiful timing—Munakata called, “Fushimi, Ms. Awashima, let’s take our leave.”

And for once, Fushimi would gladly follow his king into fire and brimstone, _as long as he could get away._

But the moment he turned, Misaki snatched collar and yanked him back to face him. Fushimi was caught off-guard, his fingers fumbling for a knife—but would he ever really hurt Yata?

The weak _no_ his mind provided made the blue sick at his stomach.

“I’m not broken, Saru,” Yata spoke very clearly, each syllable cleaving through the blue’s thoughts. “So stop looking at me like I’ll shatter. I can still kick your ass.”

And just like that, the small flame was smothered, and Misaki left the room with Kamamoto on his heels. Fushimi’s retort soured to a “tch,” and he scratched hard at his collarbone.

Always trying to forget.

But always remembering.

* * *

Fushimi tried to not think about the meeting—but it haunted him even into the shower.

His fingers hastily scratched his scalp, and his eyes squinted to read the shampoo bottle. Now Misaki would have ammunition in their next fight, bringing up the moment where Fushimi’s emotional shield slipped just a fraction. If he had a voice, that is.

All his thoughts continued to slosh in a brutal washing machine cycle, ending wherever it began, always on Misaki, Misaki, Misaki.

Fushimi lowered his hair into the spray, and the suds slid down the contours of his face.

Why did he have to dedicate so much thought to the stupid vanguard? Fushimi was nowhere near forgiving him for worshipping Mikoto—but now that Fushimi put him in this situation, is the blue obligated to forget about it?

He snapped the shower off, and his hair dripped as he stared at the blurry hand gripping the handle.

_Why did he miss it?_

He grabbed a towel and draped it on his head, but his phone rang where it sat on the counter.

“Why is everyone calling me…” he mumbled.

He slipped his glasses on and clicked his tongue at the sight of the caller ID.

_Misaki, Misaki, Misaki._

Against his better judgment, he put the call on speaker and pulled his shirt on.

“What do you want this time?” He asked and slipped into a pair of jeans.

“To give information,” Kusanagi replied. “The Green Clan is on the move.”

“I already know…” Fushimi grumbled and buttoned up his shirt.

“You know, you and Yata are going to have to work together.” The stupid bartender was testing the waters, dipping his finger in to see if it was too hot or too cold. “Without yelling, preferably.”

Fushimi sighed. Loudly. “If you are going to waste the time to call me, I prefer you to tell me something I don’t already know.”

“Alright then. He wants to talk.”

It felt like a knife to his artery. His fingers stopped at the last button.

“Why?”

That was the question he had been asking himself this whole time. _Why?_ Fushimi always hated not having an answer to the question.

Why.

_Why did I miss it?_

“I don’t know,” the bartender admitted. “But it’s Yata. I’m sure it has something to do with you saving his life.”

“No,” the blue said before he fully processed it. _I killed him._ “I didn’t save his life.”

He smashed the end call button but hit his phone to the ground in the process. Fushimi sighed an retrieved it.

Fushimi _didn’t_ save Yata’s life. In fact, he killed everything that made him Yata. His voice, his passion, all of it filtered right through Fushimi’s fingers. _He,_ for once, felt responsible. And that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

A message arrived after he finished redressing. From Kusanagi.

A time and a place to meet.

Half of Fushimi wanted to delete the message and pretend he never saw it. But the new tether of obligation dragged at him.

_“I’m not broken, Saru,”_ the voice in his head repeated.

Why did his voice of reason always have Misaki’s voice?

* * *

Fushimi was on call for Scepter 4, but free to move until he was ordered otherwise. And as he walked to the street corner Kusanagi detailed in his text, Fushimi was almost praying for Munakata’s poor sense of timing to kick in and call him—but the order never came, and he arrived at the designated lamp post five minutes early to meet his ex-best friend.

Why was everything with Yata so complicated?

He leaned against the post and stared at his phone, willing for Munakata to once in his life be useful to Fushimi.

But it never came. Only the dark, gray thoughts crowding his small world did.

_“I still haven’t thanked you yet, did I?”_

The thought churned again, playing the events of the past year—Tatara and then Mikoto’s death, Anna’s kidnapping, the emergence of the Green Clan. The swelter of memories was overwhelming the closer they accelerated to the fateful day of the school.

So Fushimi didn’t notice Yata’s approach until the vanguard tapped his shoulder, and Fushimi almost killed him.

Again.

But he quickly slipped the throwing knife under his sleeve before the vanguard noticed.

Yata wore a black shirt, and his form almost faded into the darkness. His bat caught the faint illumination of the lamp post. The world was once again in gradients of gray, with only one red flame.

_This is a stupid idea._

“You know, I thought it was amusing that Kusanagi said you wanted to talk to me.” Even then, Fushimi didn’t find enough amusement to even crack a smile, let alone laugh. “It definitely made me laugh, Misaki.”

Fushimi wanted yelling. Passion. Anything that even _resembled_ Misaki’s very _existence._ But the vanguard just stood silently, his eyes burning with a rage his voice could not respond with.

“Then why did you come, if you thought it was that stupid?” he asked, and the wind leisurely picked at each word as it came.

It was too small. Too weak.

Just like Fushimi.

“Just hurry up and tell me why I’m here, Misaki. We both know I’m busy.”

Fushimi glanced at everything that _wasn’t_ the vanguard, the dead storefronts, a lone car that passed—but the uncomfortable silence crowded around, and Fushimi shoved his gaze to the red.

He didn’t have the bandages. The angry red skin of his new scars stared back at the blue.

Two words. “Thank you.”

Two simple words. But it wasn’t that simple. The events of the past weeks couldn’t just be dissolved with a “thank you.”

Too much has been lost for it to be that easy.

“Why thank me?” Fushimi said with a bitter undertone. “You can barely speak loud enough to say that.”

A new cycle started. Fushimi had gotten into the unfortunate habit of running away, but now, he was just too tired to keep running.

There was no point, anymore. He could never escape the small, gray world.

“I could have died,” Yata said.

Fushimi shoved his hands in his pockets. “You basically did.”

The vanguard quirked an eyebrow, and Fushimi scowled. _You’re always too dense, Misaki._

Here they go, trying to be civil again.

None of this was real. All of this was fake.

“You're known for your loud, annoying voice.” Fushimi kicked a rock and wished he could disappear with it into the darkness. “You’re basically not the same, Misaki.”

And that was his fault. His and no one else’s.

_Why did he miss it?_

The ancient dial-up in Misaki’s eyes finally connected the dots. Even if this wasn’t his Yata, he still acted like it. He squared up to Fushimi, and he crossed his arms.

And Yata spoke, in a louder octave then Fushimi had heard before. “You think I’m simple. That I’m too stupid, or I’m too loud. I’m more complex than just a voice. I’m Yatagarasu. I’m Homra’s vanguard. I’m a skateboarder. I’m a friend. I’m not broken because my voice is messed up.”

Stunned to silence, all Fushimi could do was stare at Yata. He couldn’t protect himself from this onslaught.

“Everyone changes, like you, and like me, too. I know not to be rash or hotheaded now. That I got to think and keep my eyes open and stop burning the bridges I leave behind. So, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to hate you. Not anymore.”

Fushimi wanted to belittle him but couldn’t find any holes to poke. Yata was right, to some extent. The red _had_ changed, for better or worse. But Fushimi had always comprehended him in the grayscale he saw his world.

_How did I miss this…?_

Like last time, his gray world suddenly dissolved into color. But it wasn’t because of a flash of green.

It was because of a bright, burning _red._

The change in the vanguard started after he tossed the glass bottle. He was a prideful, hotheaded, oblivious idiot. But then he metaphorized again, after Mikoto died and Anna was kidnapped.

All this growth and Fushimi missed the single flower until he realized it had formed a garden. A garden of not just greens, but reds and even blues.

But in the end, he hadn’t changed that much—he was still the Misaki who fought for the first-player controller and drank more soda than he should.

He just changed from Misaki, to Misaki, to _Misaki_.

The blue hadn’t killed him. He just witnessed him change into another version, a better version, of the same Misaki.

Was it appropriate to laugh now?

This time, Fushimi didn’t hold it in.

How did he miss _that_?

Misaki watched as Fushimi laughed. There was something still unspoken between them, an uneasy truce that started the moment Yata groveled to him for help finding Anna. Fushimi had always chosen to ignore it before.

But it was the light illuminating his gray world.

“Do you still hate me?” Yata asked.

Fushimi actually had an answer.

“We’ll have to see, Misaki~”

The vanguard didn’t scream—but he _did_ wound his bat over his shoulder.

And Fushimi ran away laughing.

But this time he wasn’t running away from something, he was running toward it. One day, they could repair the broken bridge of their friendship.

But before that could happen, Fushimi would have to change, too. He was a creature of habit. It would take time.

At the very least, this new version of Yata _seemed_ to have acquired some patience.

Once he was a few blocks away, Fushimi slowed his stride. His mind still bobbled when it came to Gojo Sukuna, still on the fence about getting revenge.

But his infiltration into JUNGLE loomed closer, and he knew things would change. Misaki would get pissed, and it would damage the small blossom of their friendship. This time, however, Fushimi was strangely confident that it wouldn’t be damaged forever—just like a tree rebounding from a horrible ice storm. 

This was what years of friendship result in.

A world full of color and a bridge they could rebuild. Together.

A small, yet strong voice that filtered through the darkness of Fushimi’s heart.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of my fanfic called Misaki x3. While same plot and elements remain, most of it has been rewritten in a new, cleanier way that I hope you enjoy. It was a lot of fun revisiting this story and making it a better version.


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